 | CHAP. XXI. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution |  |
21. CHAP. XXI.
The time is coming now, and the weird's dree'd, and the wheel's turning.
Guy Mannering.
The hatred that subsisted between the citizens of
Boston, and the troops sent to compel them to submission,
grew every day more rancorous. There seemed
likely to be no end to insults, abuses, and petty stratagems
of malice. At length, a soldier having received
a blow from some one of the lower orders of people,
implicated his companions in the quarrel. This led to
new and repeated vexations; and on the fifth of March,
1770, the populace, exasperated beyond further endurance,
armed themselves with clubs, and ran to King-street,
shouting, “Drive out the rascals! they are not
fit to breathe the air of a free country!”
The sentinel at the barracks called out the guard to
his assistance; and had they not been restrained by
their officers, they would have rushed on the citizens
with furious slaughter.
“Stand back! and form a line!” said Captain Preston,
waving his sword as he spoke; and obedient to
military orders, they formed one long, firm phalanx, and
stood as motionless as pieces of ancient armour.
Infuriated by the calm contempt, which this stillness
indicated, the multitude rushed on to the very points of
their bayonets.
“Fire, cowards! fire!” was the general shout.
“Aye, spill blood!” cried the shrill voice of Molly
Bradstreet, who was at that moment towering along the
side-walk. “Spill blood, red from the hearts of your
brethren;—but do it at your peril. You'll live to see
it fearfully avenged.”
“Hush, woman,—hush, for Heaven's sake,” exclaimed
John Dudley; “there will be horrid work here, before
the sun goes down.”
“The villains lack courage to fire on freemen,” answered
she, in her loudest, and most insulting tones.
“Yes, they dare not! they dare not!” was echoed
by the crowd.
A deep, half-smothered sound of wrath ran along the
troops; and an instant after the fatal words were spoken,
a volley of musketry rent the air. The clashing of
clubs and bayonets,—the loud rolling of drums,—the
violent din of bells,—the screams—the imprecations—
the curses, and the howlings of the multitude, were terrible
beyond all description; yet even above them all,
might be distinguished the piercing shrieks of the wounded,
and the groans of those who grasped the earth in
their last, mortal agony.
The witch, to whose mysterious conduct we have so
often alluded, was among the number of the dying.
There she lay, upon the cold, slippery earth,—looking
upward with an intense expression of pain,—her bright
red cardinal fluttering at her side, like the outspread
banner of a fallen chieftain. In a most imploring voice,
she called out, “Wherever Lucretia Fitzherbert is,
Dudley heard the name she mentioned, and drew near
to understand the nature of her request; but as he
stooped to listen, a ball grazed his ear, and sunk deep
into his shoulder. Staggering he fell back, and his head
rested on the wounded side of the expiring woman.
The discordant uproar increased,—the clang of bells
grew louder and louder,—the heavy tramp of horses
mingled with the vociferations of the mob; and Hutchinson
was heard expostulating with the soldiers at the
very top of his voice.
“How dared you fire without orders?” said he.
“Because we would not brook the insolence of these
low-born rebels,” was the reply.
The fierce altercation died away upon the ear of the
two unfortunate beings we have mentioned. How long
they remained insensible they knew not; but when they
recovered, Doctor Willard was standing over them,
binding up their wounds.
The first words the woman uttered were, “Fitzherbert!
Fitzherbert! Will nobody carry me there.”
In compliance with her request, she was placed on
one of the litters, which had been hastily prepared, and
conveyed to Queen-street.
Henry Osborne had, on the first alarm, joined the vast
multitude collected in King's-street; but his father, at
Lucretia's earnest request had remained at home, listening
to the distant tumult with the most intense anxiety.
When he saw the litter stop before his door, he ran out,
and eagerly inquired, “Is it Henry? Is it my only son?
Has he gone too?”
“No, my dear sir,” answered Doctor Willard; “it
is a poor crazy woman, who has fallen a victim to this
accursed soldiery.”
“Oh, what a scene of horrors is this,” rejoined Mr.
Osborne. “I knew it must be so, but I little thought
my old eyes would live to see it.”
“Yes, the blow is struck,” said Doctor Willard;
“and the wound will fester long, before it heals. The
rascals say we dare not fight.—By Heaven, I hope I
shall die up to my knees in blood.”
While this brief conversation took place between the
gentlemen, the wounded woman was removed from the
litter to a bed prepared for her reception. Doctor Willard,
after careful examination, gave it as his opinion,
that if the ball were speedily extracted, her life might
possibly be saved.
“It is better otherwise,” said the wretched woman,
casting a searching glance around the apartment; “but
will she not come to see me die?”
Lucretia entered just as she finished speaking, bringing
with her some cordial she had been preparing. The
sufferer raised her withered hands, and looked upward
with an expression of fervent gratitude.
“Send them all away,” whispered she, as Lucretia
offered her the cup; “I have somewhat to say to you.”
As soon as her wish was intimated the physician and
the servants withdrew; and even before the door had
closed, she clasped Lucretia's hand in hers, pressed it
to her lips, and kissed it again and again with frantic
joy. “I had not hoped to die thus,” she said. “I have
think to depart.”
Miss Fitzherbert would have taken this for the ravings
of insanity,—but the remark she had heard her make on
her way to Hollis-street church, the day Mr. Whitfield
preached there; her conduct at Mr. Wilson's funeral;
and her emotions when viewing the portrait, formed a
strange and puzzling coincidence.
“Poor woman,” said she, “what can occasion the
interest you take in me?”
The invalid looked up as if imploring from her that
compassion and tenderness which the rest of the world
denied her. “Could you,” said she, “endure the
thought that you were related to such an outcast in creation
as I am?”
“I could welcome any thing to my heart that was
connected with a mother I have been taught to love and
respect,” replied Lucretia.
“Oh, Lucretia Fitzherbert,” rejoined this mysterious
being, “may the end of your pilgrimage be more cheerful
than mine has been. It is a sore thing to the heart
to live in this wide world, and know there is not a single
soul cares when or how you leave it. To feel that
those for whom you would sacrifice life and limb,—yea,
heart and soul, would consider you as a blot upon their
fair name,—a vile weight to sink them into the mire of
poverty and shame. You will hate me,—you will hate
me.”
“Had you no children?” inquired Lucretia, in a
tone of heartfelt pity.
“I had.—Your mother was my child.”
“But,” said Lucretia, in a faltering voice, “my
mother and Gertrude May were not sisters?”
“No, they were not. But you have not a drop of
Fitzherbert blood in your veins.” She covered her
eyes with both her hands, as she spoke, as if she feared
to see the effect her tidings produced.
Lucretia was, for an instant, deadly pale; and she
grasped her grandmother's arm in a manner that expressed
more plainly than words could have done, the intensity
of her feelings,—the eagerness of her curiosity.
“I must,” said the old woman, attempting to rise,
but writhing with pain, as she again fell back upon the
pillow, “I must tell my crime while I have the strength.
Time is precious now; for never will these old eyes
witness the rising of another sun. Matilda Howe and
my Gertrude were companions. She married Captain
Fitzherbert, about the same time that Harry Wilson
said he married Gertrude. I was not in Halifax at that
period. I always had a wandering, restless spirit after
my husband left me;—but I learned afterward that Wilson
was jealous of the Captain; and—” she drew her
breath hard as she spoke,—“there was some dreadful
business.”
“I took you from my dying daughter, when you were
six weeks old, and went to pour forth my griefs to the kindhearted
Mrs. Fitzherbert. She was sick with a fever,
—and the babe that is now Mrs. Percival, lay sleeping
in her cradle. God forgive me for the wicked deed!
Trouble had shattered my poor mind; but I was an ambitious
Fitzherbert, I thought, would be rich and respectable,—
but who could tell what would become of Harry Wilson's
poor child. Satan tempted me,—and I yielded.
You are Gertrude Wilson. Can you forgive me?”
She spoke in accents hurried and frantic,—occasionally
interrupted by violent spasms. Lucretia could not
look upon the poor wretch with any thing like resentment;
but a consciousness of degradation, and shame
for the gross imposture that had been practised, troubled
and confused her mind,—and she wept in silence.
“I knew it would be so,” said the old woman, bursting
into tears. “I knew you could not forgive me for
telling you the unwelcome tidings;—but, oh, my child,
it was a heavy weight,—and I could not carry it down
to my grave. No other mortal is privy to it; and the
secret which pride has kept so long, death will keep
forever. You need not be disgraced in the eye of the
world.”
“I do not mourn that you have told me now,” replied
Lucretia; “but that you had not told me years
before. It is dreadful to think that I have wronged another,—and
that all my honours and enjoyments have
been the fruits of deception. But let that pass away.
I will atone for it, and never remember it against you,
my grandmother.”
“Oh, that I should ever live to hear that blessed
sound,” said the aged woman. “Raise up my head,
let me look at you, and die in your arms.”
Lucretia did as she desired,—and in the depth of her
pity, she even imprinted a kiss on the wrinkled forehead
of one, whose guilt and sufferings had all been for her
sake. “But my mother—was she murdered?” said
she, in a shuddering tone.
“Your father confessed it on his death-bed; but Gertrude
made me believe she died of an accidental wound.
The heart of woman is a strange thing. It will live for
years on the remembrance of kindness; and like a
lamb, it will fondle upon the hand that stabs it.”
“And my father? Did you see him afterward, till the
day he died?”
“Once he came to my old hut at the foot of Rattlesnake
Hill, to have his fortune told. I learned the black
art of a Scotch woman. I don't know whether there
was any thing in it, but things would sometimes come to
pass as my books foretold. There was nobody in the
world to love me, and so I had a mind they should fear
me; and it was pleasant enough to see, how strong as
well as weak were slaves to my power.
“Your father had been gone many a long year,—nobody
knew where; and well I guessed for no good purpose.
I knew him at first sight, for hatred has a memory
like love. I knew by his actions that he was the
murderer of my child. I said I would be revenged,—
and I had it in my heart to kill him; but he was your
father, and I could not go through with it.”
Here the invalid seemed exhausted with the extreme
exertion she had made; and Lucretia, alarmed at the
rapid changes in her countenance, hastened to call the
the old woman; “lest when you come back, I should
not have ears to hear it. I have been a poor, wronged,
half crazed, and furious creature; but I am calm now;
and I shall soon be calmer still. I have staid away from
you months and years, in my solitary pilgrimage,—because
I would not come among your proud friends to
disgrace you; but love was sometimes too strong for
me, and I would plod many a weary mile but to look on
you, and hear the sound of your voice. Can you forgive
your old grandmother?”
“I do, I do,” replied Lucretia. She was about to
add that she hoped she would yet live many years, happy
and respectable; but an unbidden feeling rose up to
prevent her utterance; and surely in one whose pride
of rank had been so peculiarly fostered by education and
circumstances, this tinge of the world's vanity might be
forgiven.
When Miss Fitzherbert descended to the parlour, she
was startled to find the Doctor engaged in fastening a
bandage around Henry's arm. “It is a mere trifle,”
said young Osborne, inwardly rejoicing at the injury
which had procured him such a look of anxious affection.
“Father has gone up to see honest Dudley, who
has a far worse wound; but the Doctor says he will
recover.”
“Yes, he will do well enough,” replied Willard; “and
if all the country were made of such stubborn stuff as
he is, we should soon gaze at the sterns of those infernal
war-ships, and see the last blush of the red cross
flag upon our waters.”
“The time will come,” said Henry. “The land is
wide awake, and the good cause gains ground.”
“True,” rejoined the Doctor; “even Miss Lucretia
Fitzherbert has become a proselyte; and surely she
would not, without powerful reasons.”
Lucretia blushed deeply. “I told you,” said she,
“that the poor woman above stairs is very weak. Indeed
you must go to her. I will take care of Mr. Osborne's
arm.”
“You had better take good care of it,—for the right
hand is on it, you know,” said the Doctor, with a very
sly glance, as he closed the door after him.
Though Henry had said his wound was so very slight,
he now began to think it necessary for his kind nurse to
examine it, and tighten the bandages,—then it was a
long time before the handkerchief which supported it was
rightly adjusted; and no doubt he would have resorted
to a thousand other artifices to secure the presence and
attentions of a beloved object, had not Lucretia very
decidedly said she must return to the sick stranger, and
leave Phœbe in attendance upon him.
She met Doctor Willard, just leaving the chamber.
“It is all over with the poor old creature,” said he.
“I feared she would die as soon as the wound was
opened.”
The physician did not know how to account for the
agitation which this news produced. It did indeed bring
relief to Lucretia's mind to know that the unhappy being
had gone beyond the reach of earthly suffering, and
that the shame of such a connexion was spared her;
Had she lived, no sympathy could possibly have existed
between them; yet it seemed very heartless to rejoice
at the death of one to whom she was so nearly allied
by nature. To feel that we ought to give our affections
where it is utterly out of our power, is painful indeed;
and if we fail from the impossibility, it is long before our
own hearts excuse it.
The day following these melancholy occurrences, the
citizens met together, and after a short consultation, sent
a message to the Lieutenant Governor, signifying that
there was every thing to fear from the excited state of
the populace,—and that the army must be removed from
Boston without delay. Governor Hutchinson had had
sufficient proof of the spirits he had to deal with; accordingly,
he gave orders that the troops should immediately
embark for Castle William. Not satisfied with
this atonement for the injuries they had suffered, the
inhabitants resolved to express their indignation, sorrow
and compassion, by celebrating the obsequies of the
slain in the most public and honourable manner. True,
none of them were much superior to the miserable woman
whose strange story had produced such an unexpected
change in the prospects of Lucretia Fitzherbert;
but they were fellow-citizens, slaughtered by the hand
of violence and oppression. On the morning of the
8th, business was universally suspended, many of the
windows were hung with black, and all the bells of Boston,
Charlestown, and Roxbury, joined in one funeral
toll. Long files of carriages and horses, followed by
toward King-street, where the multitude of human heads
seemed like the waves of the ocean, making the brain
dizzy with their numbers. Thus was the mother of
Gertrude May conveyed to her last home.
When the fraud which had placed Lucretia in the
possession of rank and fortune, was first disclosed to her,
it seemed like some bewildered dream. The more she
thought on the subject, the more the value of what she
was about to lose increased in her estimation. It must
be confessed, she was sorely tempted to conceal the disgraceful
truth,—but none of Lucretia's faults had a tinge
of meanness or hypocrisy; and she would have scorned
to purchase a crown at the expense of generosity and
candour. Accordingly she frankly disclosed all the circumstances
to her astonished friends, a few days after
her grandmother's death.
“There is no end to the wonders in your life, my
dear girl,” said Mr. Osborne. “Many a heroine of
romance does not meet with half your reverses.”
“And few living heroines,” rejoined Henry, “have
come forth so stainless from the midst of trials and
temptations.”
“It does indeed argue no weak virtue, my child,”
said Mr. Osborne, “to decide rightly, with so much
promptitude, in a case like this. But let us hear your
letter to Mrs. Percival.”
Lucretia opened the paper, and read as follows:
“It is long since I have written to you,—longer than
I once thought it ever would be; but heart-trying scenes
prevented it, after my return from England; and when
their bitterness had passed away, I was too much depressed
to make any mental exertion.
“I received your husband's letter, thanking me for
the picture which I sent him on account of its extreme
resemblance to you.
“That mystery is now solved. You, of course, recollect
Polly May, generally called Molly Bradstreet,—
who behaved in so singular a manner at the funeral in
Roxbury. She was my grandmother—not yours. The
papers will give you an account of the bloody affray
between the soldiers and citizens in this oppressed town.
She was passing through King-street at the time, and
was mortally wounded. On her death-bed she confessed
that she exchanged us, during our infancy. This
explains the resemblance, which, I have been told, troubled
my poor father in his dying moments. This accounts
for the indifference my grandmother evinced
toward you, and the eager interest she always took in
every thing that concerned me. You may well believe
that I am deeply ashamed as well as grieved, to think
that I have visited England, and associated with the
rich, the powerful, and the learned there, under the
mask of an impostor:—but I was innocent in my ignorance,—and
I have long since learned that conscious
rectitude of purpose will enable us to go through the
most fiery trials which this changing world can offer.
The large sums that have, for four years past, supported
me in luxury, will, I trust, be returned to you at
some future season; though I confess I do not know
where I am to procure the means. I will write immediately
to my agent in England, whom I would recommend
to you as a faithful and disinterested man. The
sooner a legal transfer of property is made, the better.
If you can gather any particulars concerning my grandmother,
I wish you to write them. She appeared to
me to have uncommon strength of mind, and ideas
somewhat above her station.
A few weeks after, the following answer was received:
“Much respected Madam,
“We know not at which to admire most,—the sudden
change that puts us in possession of such wealth,—or
the noble integrity that could voluntarily relinquish it.
“Do not insult us by talking of what you have expended.
If my beloved wife had always known herself
as Lucretia Fitzherbert, she would have rejoiced
to give genius like yours every opportunity to improve
itself. Few could have travelled in England to so much
advantage and very few have so richly deserved all the
enjoyment that could be found there. Never mention the
subject again, I beg of you;—it seems as if you thought
You write as if you supposed this transfer of property
would leave you poor. My uncle Townsend's fortune
was ample for New England; though a mere trifle compared
with what we all considered yours. Do you forget
that his estates were all left to Gertrude Wilson, in
case Edward Percival did not marry her? And how, I
pray you, can Edward Percival comply with any such
requisition? However, I shall soon be in Boston to attend
to this business. We will then exchange our respective
rights and titles; and, be as disinterested as
you will, you shall not go beyond me.
“I made many inquiries concerning Mrs. Polly May,
when I returned to Canada, at the close of the year
1765, but I could never obtain much information. She
was, as you say, a woman of uncommon strength of
mind; by means of which she obtained an almost unbounded
influence over the vulgar and the superstitious.
She was a favourite servant in a rich English family at
Halifax, I have been told; and received from them an
education rather above the common stamp. A wild
young Englishman, who visited this family, was captivated
with her beauty, and married her privately. He
left her; and soon after he returned to his native country,
he married the daughter of a Scottish nobleman.
She went over in search of him,—was treated with
great cruelty and scorn,—and returned a poor, passionate,
insane creature. She never took much care of her
child; though in her intervals of reason, she treated
her with distracted fondness. This daughter was very
she grew up vain, giddy, and headstrong. She
was your mother;—but you know her story, and I will
not dwell upon its horrors.
“There are things to lament in the character of these
people, most surely; but their faults ought not to throw
a shadow on their posterity. True majesty of soul, like
yours, madam, can derive no additional lustre from the
adventitious circumstances of wealth and station. Lucretia
(when shall I learn to call her so) desires her sincerest
love.
Mr. Percival soon after came to New England, as he
had proposed; and all necessary arrangements were
made with as much delicacy and generosity as possible.
Lucretia assumed the name of Gertrude Wilson; and
again appeared in the newspapers far and wide as the
heroine of a wonderful and romantic story.
| CHAP. XXI. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution | |